


Who Knows What We Speak To The Dark

by springsnow



Series: Sehnsucht [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Crying, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Secret Relationship, Tenderness, Unwanted Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 08:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19292332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springsnow/pseuds/springsnow
Summary: Marcel hates British Strong Style.





	Who Knows What We Speak To The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Is it angst cleverly disguised as smut, or is it smut cleverly disguised as angst? I have no idea what prompted this beyond 'I like to suffer'. Enjoy. Title taken and paraphrased from _The Lord of the Rings_.

Marcel hates British Strong Style. He hates their arrogance and the way they swagger around like they own NXT UK and the way they pander to the morons in the audience. He hates Pete Dunne and he hates Tyler Bate and most of all, he hates Trent Seven.

Or at least, that’s what he tries to tell himself when Trent’s balls-deep inside of him in his hotel room at two a.m.

He does hate him, he _does_. If Trent accepted it for what it was—the occasional quick dirty fuck on the down low, away from prying eyes and cameras—it would be fine, but he won’t. If he’d just bend Marcel over a table or throw him onto the bed and fuck him hard and fast and rough, nails digging into skin and hair being pulled, it would be fine, but he _won’t_. If Trent just treated him like a dirty secret and nothing more, no tenderness or sweetness, it would be fine.

_But he won’t._

“Just hurry up and fuck me,” Marcel snaps as Trent preps him gently. Trent smiles wickedly in return.

“Now what sort of a man would I be if I did that?”

“A less annoying one?”

Trent laughs, which only stings more. Marcel slaps his chest. “Oh, you love it, darling,” Trent coos, leaning down over him. Marcel turns his head to the side. “Come on. Just one kiss?”

Marcel acquiesces, and of course, it’s not just one kiss. It never is. Trent kisses him, and then he kisses him again, and by the time Trent’s cock is actually inside of Marcel, it’s turned into a full-on make-out session, Trent mumbling soft words of encouragement between the kisses. Tears of frustration well up in Marcel’s eyes as Trent fucks him slow and gentle and peppers his face with soft, tender kisses and tells him how well he’s doing.

“This isn’t a romantic thing,” Marcel says afterwards as he gets dressed. Trent shrugs.

“Never said it was, love.”

“Then stop calling me that. Love. Darling. I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”

“Pity. You’re a terrific shag.”

“Fuck you, Seven.”

“You just did, Barthel.”

Marcel’s nostrils flare, but he says nothing. He finishes dressing and runs a comb through his hair. He still smells of sex and sweat, but it’s nothing a shower can’t fix.

“Sleep well, yeah?” Trent says as he walks to the door, and it makes Marcel’s stomach twist because it’s so completely sincere. He still says nothing, swallowing thickly as he slips out of the room and hurries down the hall to the elevator.

There’s a lump in his throat, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry on the way back to his room, nor does he cry in the shower, and nor does he cry as he prepares for bed.

But when he slides between the cool covers and switches the lamp off, he starts thinking about Trent again. Trent’s big, warm hands, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner and his nose wrinkles when he smiles. He thinks about the one and only time he ever allowed Trent to hold him after they fucked. He’d wrapped his arm around Marcel’s shoulder and kissed the crown of his head, and for once, Marcel hadn’t complained; simply rested his head on Trent’s chest and listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat as it soothed him. He thinks about how he was at once both totally at peace and disgusted at himself.

And alone in his bed, the ghosts of Trent’s hands still lingering on his arms and legs, Marcel begins to cry.


End file.
